Accept The Inevitable
by NotOnFlatBread
Summary: Dean's time in hell, his victims and becoming a demon after his acceptance of Alastair's offer
1. Offering

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and gain no profit from this at all**

The outstretched hand of his torturer lay before his eyes; wet blood dripping from it, the dry blood encrusting the sharpened nails. Every line and crevice was outlined in the shiny red life that was slowly and painfully being torn out of him, pulling him across the border of life and death.

"Have you changed your mind?"

His eyes were clenched together tightly to block out the ghastly sights around him. His heart was pounding so loud and vigorously that no sound should be heard. The walls he'd tried so hard to build around him still stood tall. But he could still hear the haunting voice cut through, and the twisted grin behind it. It took a few tries before he finally managed to get his growl out of his scorched throat.

"No".

He felt the hand retreat back to its owner with a controlled exhale. "Give it up, grasshopper. Sam's not coming to help you. Daddy's not coming to help you. No one cares about you, and no one's coming. Sam's moved on, you told him to. He's riding around in your wheels without a thought of you, and you've been replaced… with Ruby. Yup, that's right. She's his buddy now, and she's far more successful than you ever were. They're a real team, with her, he can do things he couldn't before, back when you would be holding him back. You're just tormenting yourself in thinking Sam remembers you, and sooner or later, you will break".

Dean tried his best to block it out, concentrating on anything other than that raspy voice with the bloodcurdling truth behind it. The truth of how in his last living moments before the hellhounds came, he pleaded to Sam to keep fighting, to look after the impala, to remember all that John and Dean himself had taught him. How Ruby, being a demon, could change Sam and his methods in ways Dean didn't even want to think about.

_Sam's moved on, you told him to. _Alastair's words ran through his head as Dean contemplated the logic behind them. Three months had passed up there – three months to accept that fact that Dean wasn't coming back, to throw himself into the work Dean had told him to continue on doing without him, and to get past his death and start again.

"You're right, Dean," Alastair taunted quietly as he played with the rusty ten-inch knife in his hands, twirling it around. He picked up one of Dean's hands, selected a finger, and slowly traced it along the sharp, smooth edge. The skin split to reveal a sloping valley as a faint, thin line of blood oozed out of it and down the finger, exposing the nerves in the fingertips that were screaming. Alastair smiled. He picked up the next finger and continued.

"For thirty years you've stood strong, enduring my creative masterpieces, denying my request. You have nothing to prove. We all know you're a warrior, a soldier. That's why we were so determined to get you here, and so thrilled when we did," Alastair grinned. "But now you're just doing it to yourself. Refusing me does you nothing, because you will break. And when you do, you'll find you suffered because you allowed it, and that my alternative, was much more ideal," he winked.

Alastair slowly put down the knife and rested it on Dean's arm as he egotistically admired his work. "You can continue saying no, but no good will come out of it. You might last longer, a couple of years if you're strong enough. But for what? To kid yourself that you're invincible and above us all in this pit? The soldier Daddy had always wanted you to be? Maybe," Alastair looked thoughtful. "But I think there's a bit more to it than that," he said with a smile as he picked up his next tool. "You know what I think is also the reason?" Alastair lowered his head closer to Dean's and wiped away some of the blood pooling upon it. His smile was gone, and something else, something dark, had taken up residence in his once-cocky, narcissistic eyes. "Redemption for all you and Sam did, everyone who suffered because of you. Because they did, they did suffer, and now they're in here. Bit more realistic, I'd say" Alastair smiled again, breathing a sigh, and playfully nudged Dean. With that tiny movement, waves of pain flowed through Dean's body bringing him back to the poison Dean heard escaping out of Alastair's mouth.

"So, what do you say? It's up to you, Dean. Live longer like this for no reason with all this suffering? Or accept the inevitable, and be able to pass on what you've felt for thirty years, dealing out some of your pain through my toys?" Alastair laughed as he laid out his favorite tools, a wide range; the sight of it made Dean feel nauseous. "Because you know you want to. Have your turn, Dean Winchester. You know, secretly, that deep down, you deserve it". He had his hand outstretched again, this time with a knife in it, and on his face a smirk and devious eyes. "Allow me to offer you the way out".

Dean tried to push away the words that cut him deeper than anything Alastair had ever used on him, but he couldn't. They became more dominant until he couldn't block them out, nor think of anything else. They raced around in his mind, and, as much as it repulsed him to admit it, Dean knew Alastair was right. Sam couldn't do anything to help him; Sam was doing exactly what Dean had asked of him. He knew by refusing Alastair's offer, he wasn't proving anything, just delaying what he would eventually accept later on.

He looked at the outstretched hand, offering a way out, as twisted and hideous as it was. Alastair's face was leering above his, watching the expression in Dean's pained eyes. With pain, he managed to lift his ravaged arm to Alastair's and, feeling his humanity about to disappear forever, placed his hand in his. He felt the hand tighten and lift him upwards, to stand on his feet, the first time in thirty years Dean was able to. He knew his wobbly legs weren't just from the lack of opportunity to stretch them.

"I knew you'd come around", Alastair smiled deceitfully. "Follow me."

Dean allowed himself to be led from the rack and away, to where another rack was waiting, a person on it, facing away from Dean and Alastair, their identity hidden. Alastair turned to Dean. "I figured this should be your first. Hopefully will get the ball rolling," Alastair sniggered excitedly. He gestured to a collection of horrific tools next to the rack. "Take your pick. And don't worry," Alastair put his hand on Dean's trembling shoulder and grinned. "I'll be here to guide you." He waved towards the rack. "Go ahead."

Dean slowly walked towards the rack, his heart pounding with nerves and guilt, as well as the hatred for what he was about to do. As he neared the person on the rack, he realized it was a woman. He swallowed and, full of shame and his pain, looked at the frightened soul, her eyes looking at him with shock as she searched in his eyes for what had once been there but had now vanished. He felt a massive pang of guilt and sickening horror as he recognized the woman. His lips slowly made the movements, but no sound came out, as if everything inside him had frozen. He gulped and tried again. This time, the name came out.

"Bela."


	2. Drive to the Knife

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and gain no profit from this**

**This has been a oneshot for ages but I randomly decided to continue it. It's a bit bloodier than the first chapter but yeah that's kind of a given in Dean's time in hell... Hope you enjoy it and all reviews are highly appreciated!**

Dean couldn't reach out for any of the tools. His hands were planted firmly at his sides, incapable of moving. Alistair, seeing this, sighed through his teeth and, slightly amused, reached out himself and picked up a jagged knife that looked more like a sharp slab of metal rather than an actual knife. The metal couldn't actually be seen because it was literally still-dripping with someone's blood. Alistair casually flipped it into the air and caught it, then handed it out to Dean with a smug look on his face. Dean, by reflex, caught it.

But he couldn't say anything. He felt sick – not of nausea but of disgust for what Alistair was encouraging him to do, what he had just agreed to, but more importantly what he was about to do. Most of him wanted to spin round and lunge at Alistair with the bloody knife and drive it into him, but he knew it was no use. The knife was worthless against Alistair, and Alistair was in a far superior position, given that his flesh wasn't literally ripped to shreds or that he could actually see without blood still-spilling down his forehead into his eyes.

As difficult as it was for Dean to admit it, the rest of him – and while that was indeed a very small part – had some sort of urge to walk forward up to the helpless woman lying there. He tried to fight it but even he knew that somewhere deep down inside him, the desire hid there. But nevertheless he tried to avoid such thoughts and tried to drop the knife down. How he longed to hear the clatter of metal against concrete and see it slide away into the shadows. But it didn't.

"Time's ticking on," Alistair said conversationally with a small, encouraging smile. Dean looked stoically to the side, averting his gaze while trying to appear in control. "Don't deny it, Dean... I picked this one for you on purpose. You know it's the best one to start with."

Dean gritted his teeth but painfully walked forward and tightened his grip around the knife. His fingers had to grasp it because the blood on it was so slippery, and his own blood trailing out of his ripped fingertips added to it. He neared Bela and saw that she was crying.

"Don't do it, Dean," she whispered. She began quietly but as she took in Dean's expression her voice became higher and slightly more frantic. "I know I was a bitch to you and Sam but this isn't you. You're not like them," she tried to reason.

Dean dropped his gaze down and fixed it on the floor. "... don't have a choice," he muttered, more to himself than to Bela.

"Yes, you do," she said quickly. "You've lasted thirty years because that's who you are, you're a survivor. Just like you've survived everything in life. You can survive hell... _without _doing this."

Dean looked back up at her. How he hated that voice, that face, that bitch... and now it was trying to reason with him. _She doesn't mean any of it_, he thought bitterly. _She's just trying to save herself._ He lifted the knife to his side higher and wiped the handle on himself to get rid of the blood on it. The blood from the knife and his own morphed into a swirl of iridescent red, dazzling in the dimly-light concrete room. He wrapped his fingers around the knife again.

"Shut up," he said. Bela's eyes widened and she began to panic. "Don't do this, Dean," she said frantically as she began squirming on the rack. Dean paused. Ninety-nine percent of the fibres in his body were trying to push him forward, but the other one percent still held him back. Before he could ponder it any longer, he heard Alistair's voice from behind.

"Don't worry, Dean. The first one's always the hardest for the weak ones," he said calmly. That sent an impulse through Dean, starting at his eardrums and sparking up to his brain and down to his toes. He stepped forward and she started to scream as he raised the knife. He slashed it through her skin, seeing the ravines open and the life squirt out. He cut off her fingernails, stabbed her repeatedly, scarred her face, gouged out an eye... He could barely hear her cries and screams above the sound of tearing flesh, until he heard Alistair's advice.

"It's usually best to silence them," he said conversationally. "You've probably got some ideas how to do that, I'm sure."

Did he ever... Dean adjusted his grip on the handle and rose it to her face, a face soaked in her salty-tears that flowed down her cheeks. Without stopping to think, he clasped the handle in both hands and shovelled it through her throat, the vocal chords ripping and her screams becoming inaudible as blood spewed out of her open throat. Some squirted up into his eyes and even a few drops in his mouth. He dragged his arm across his eyes, wiping up the blood and spat out the blood to his side. Then he didn't hold back. It took barely more than a few minutes before what was once a body now was merely a pile of skin, bones, stinking flesh and organs, all stewing in the soup of blood, the volume great enough that he could make a miniature tsunami with it. His foot trod in it and as he stepped back seeing his work was done, a long smear connecting together the bottom of his ravaged foot and what was once Bela.

He dropped the knife dramatically to the floor. It clattered. Alistair placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled. "You're a natural, Dean. I've found my protégé."

This time, Dean didn't feel the guilt and hate he had five minutes before. Instead he felt empowered, and the hesitant part of him was still there but so minute that he barely even realized it. He turned his face to Alistair, unsmilingly.

"Who's next?"

**Hope you enjoyed it, please take the time to review and let me know what you think! And thanks a lot for reading!**


	3. Drain through the Holes

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and gain no profit from this**

Next.

Despite everything that had happened, Dean couldn't really believe he had actually just asked who was next. It repulsed him, yet strangely he didn't feel the nausea he had felt when looking at the canvas Bela was to him. Instead, he felt guilty, guilty not so much in terms of what he had done, but in the fact that he had let down Sam, John and everyone who'd ever been part of his past life. Bobby was never his father, but needless to say, if Bobby only knew what had just happened, Dean was sure he'd be disowned effective immediately.

The worst part of it was that in a matter of minutes, Dean felt he had managed to erase all the good he'd done prior to the hellhounds sinking their poison into him and, despite the cliché, dragging him to hell. He couldn't call himself a hunter now... at least, not the kind of hunter he'd always endeavoured to be. He was still a hunter, but his prey had changed.

But he stopped himself from dwelling on that.

Before Alastair could reply, he turned back to the mess on the floor. Bela's butchered cadaver still lay on the ground. Dean had reduced it so little that it had slid off the rack, through the chains like a slippery fish that had managed to avoid being impaled on the hook. The blood was still flowing. Yet flowing wasn't quite the right word. It came in short almost-explosions out of the wounds. Dean didn't know why. Perhaps arteries inside were bursting one by one. If so, that surprised him. He thought he'd managed to find them all already; he'd enjoyed seeing the life inside them erupt like lava from a malicious volcano. When he'd spent time carving into the heart, he was certain he'd destroyed it all enough, but perhaps he had just been so focused on snapping the tendons that he hadn't noticed.

Dean, still exhaling, reflected on this motionlessly. Alastair placed a hand on his shoulder. The clean handprint of it juxtaposed Dean's blood-streaked torso, a splash of white on red. Dean didn't shrug it off.

"You asked who's next," Alastair said. Even without looking, Dean knew he was smirking. He could hear it in Alastair's voice, that voice that had tormented him for the past thirty years. He snaked its way through Dean and bit into him.

"I'll give you a choice. For thirty years I've made you my project, my art. And you've survived it, because we took the liberty of bringing you back at the end of each day. Fresh and new. It was so fulfilling having a blank canvas to keep experimenting on. I learnt so much from it, how to sculpt, dabble, print, mould... mix the paint. And I owe it all to you, Dean. Only you could've enriched my artistic ability. So I'll give you the chance to benefit as I did."

Dean knew what was coming. Before he could respond, Alastair continued.

"So, just for you Dean, I can bring Bela back. Take this mess..." he said, kicking at one of Bela's elbows that had rolled away into a corner, "and make it... whole again," he smiled. "Consider how fulfilling it'll be. You can learn from the mistakes you just made, avoid making them again, be creative... I have more tools if you desire."

"Or..." and Dean could sense the sullenness of it in Alastair's voice, "have someone new. I won't let you pick, but we have many here, just waiting to be ploughed into."

Dean paused. Having the option to slaughter Bela again was tempting... but he'd felt like he'd just killed Bela – something part of him had always been wanting to do, even in life – and he wanted to keep that illusion. So he looked at Alastair, and even though he knew Alastair wouldn't be impressed, said:

"Someone else."

Alastair looked a tad put out but shrugged. "It's your choice, grasshopper," he said, turning back into his cocky self. He gestured at the rack that Dean was now facing away from. "There's your second," he grinned.

Dean looked back. The mess was now gone, and on the rack was someone else whom Dean couldn't quite see. They were short, and wearing a dress of some sort. Red hair framed their face, although Dean wasn't sure if the hair was naturally red or just matted with dried blood.

He slowly walked towards the person and his heart sank, just a bit. The victim was a young girl, not much older than twelve. She was skinny, with a face of a model. But her eyes were scared and full of fear as she watched Dean's approach warily. She started to cry and squirm under the chains and their spikes that hooked her into place.

Before Dean could do anything, he heard Alastair's voice. "Wait just a minute, Dean," he sang out. "You seem to have forgotten this," he said, and him handed a rusty chainsaw. "This might come in handy, too," he added, tossing him a butterfly knife. "Of course, you have free pick of these," he finished, moving aside to reveal a table of new instruments that replaced the old, blood-soaked ones.

Dean had surpassed the point of weakness and failure. He nodded mutely, and dove right in. He tuned out the screams, the pleas, the blood that spurted up into his eyes, clouding his vision, and sculpted to his heart's content. Or at least, what was now replacing his heart.

Dean finished within minutes, and tossed the chainsaw back to Alastair, who dodged it. Alastair began to clap. "Another fine display, Dean," he smiled sadistically. "With a few more tries, I'm sure you'll be progressing fast enough for me to offer you one of the best of all. I can't wait to see that," Alastair said.

Dean was wary of that, but pushed it aside. He didn't want to think about what Alastair may be insinuating, or at least referring to. It must be someone that Dean had met in his past life, otherwise it wouldn't have much effect on him.

"But don't get cocky, Dean," Alastair said. "You still have much to learn... ready to try a third time?"

Dean nodded.


	4. Creation

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and gain no profit from this**

Ah, the spaghetti.

It was always the same. Mushy, overcooked spaghetti that ended up wrapped around the jagged curves of the blade. Only it didn't possess the yellow, creamy colour that normal pasta would. It was shimmery, pretty and maroon. It didn't smell starchy either, and when he touched it, Dean didn't feel the texture he wanted to. It smelt of rusty metal, and felt hot and sticky.

Looking at the torn ends of the strands, he found himself thinking back to when he was ten years old and pouring the cooked spaghetti into a strainer, a cloud of vapour erupting into his face. He'd made it for him and Sam that night. John had gone somewhere and wouldn't be back for a few days, leaving Dean in charge. Dean had never liked that spaghetti, but it was one of the few things Sam would willingly eat, and like always, Sammy always came first. So he made it, and when combined with the rich, chewy brown-red meat, it wasn't that bad.

But this was different. It looked far from appetizing, but at least it gave Dean pride and pleasure that he had almost never managed to feel. He'd never have guessed that uprooting bloody, torn nerves would be so much fun. If someone now gave him the choice between cooking spaghetti and diving into an arm to rip out lifelines, he knew exactly what he would pick.

The only thing that distracted him from his amusement was the screams begging for mercy and fueled by pain. The man was roughly in his fifties and writhed in horror and torment at this young man who was literally butchering him alive. But Dean didn't hold back. He threw the handful of nerves across the room, splattering onto the black wall. It left a spray of rotting blood and almost gave the illusion of black and red tie-dying. Art.

Dean enjoyed puncturing the lungs. It yearned for the hiss of respect and congratulations as the air deflated out of them. Once blown up, they shrivelled down into useless flaps. He reached behind him for a screwdriver and drove down with all his might, a hole so substantial that it cut completely through. He could see the tip out the other end.

Eyeballs were his favourite part – even still they managed to kind of unsettle him. Those orbs swivelled around, fixing on him and burning a hole. But he ignored it. Alastair had given him a spoon. At first, he'd held the flimsy thing and wondered what on earth he could do with that, and how it was far from threatening. But like always, he made the best of what he had. So he ripped off the eyelids and tossed them carelessly onto the floor. He always worked faster at this part. If he thought swivelling eyes in a face were bad, it was nothing compared to eyes without eyelinds.

So he used the handle of the spoon to cut away the nerves and everything that connected the eyeball to the tissue inside. Once that was free, he inserted the round end just behind the eye and effortlessly flicked it out. It sprung across the room, rolling over near to Alastair, who gently stepped on it and watched the vitreous humor spill out. The hole without the eyeball stared blankly, a crevice of nothingness.

The man was still screaming. Dean understood why – the man had died in life, he was still dead, he couldn't die again. But how annoying it was. Something had to be done about that. Effective immediately.

Alastair sensed this, and handed Dean something. Dean looked down at it. It was... a can opener? This was getting ridiculous. First a spoon, now a can opener? Dean was in hell, not home economics class. But nevertheless he trusted Alastair. Alastair was – as Dean had once said – a "black belt in torture" so if Alastair thought this was best, then he must be right. Dean had an idea how to use it; he didn't know if it would work, but hell, he had to try.

Dean reached into the man's mouth, which was obviously wide open and everything inside of was rattling around with his screams. But Dean ignored this, and feeling his fingers grasp around the tongue, yanked up hard on it. Obviously it remained connected, but to get rid of it easily wasn't Dean's intention. He picked up the can opener and felt around for the sharp point that could puncture metal. There it was...

Without further ado, he stabbed the point into the base of the man's tongue and ignored the blood that spurted out of it. Blood was nothing to him now. He arranged his fingers around the turning point and twirled it around. Dean was surprised – it was actually working. The can opener made its way around the tongue and after one full rotation, it literally fell back, detached, and resting at the top of his windpipe.

But the man was still making noise. Dean wasn't impressed. Screams were good in a way because they conveyed Dean's success, but still, having permanent whining in his ear got to him after awhile. Hell does that to you. You begin by loving the praise, then you find you don't need it anymore. You know when you're doing well.

So he abruptly closed the man's mouth and Dean felt around the man's neck for the vocal chords. He didn't really know what he was looking for, but he thought he may as well take a guess. He picked up a blunt knife – for once it wasn't another cooking utensil – and began ravaging the throat. He couldn't identify what was flicking up in his face, but he hoped he'd found the right thing.

It seemed like he did. The man had stopped his high-pitched screams and instead was making a lower, much quieter noise somewhere in his throat. Dean could barely hear it now.

Dean was just about to begin on the man's ears when he heard Alastair speak behind him. His voice was quiet and calm but said, "Stop, Dean. Don't waste all your talents on one soul. Save something for later."

Dean pulled his hands away from the face with effort. He didn't want to stop, but he saw Alastair's point. He dropped the tools beside him and wiped his hands on his raggedy shirt. The trail of blood didn't look threatening to either of him, but rather a masterpiece.

"I have to admit, I didn't think you'd find a use for all of those things," Alastair said, smirking. "But you bested my expectations. And you're definitely improving. Maybe it won't be so long after all until I step up your game a bit."

"Give you some... bigger fish to fry."


	5. Facade

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and gain no profit from this. Some of the lines are dialogue from the show and I am just using them to maintain consistency and make it more accurate with what was said in the episode.**

"_You can't escape me, Dean. You're gonna die. And this – this is what you're gonna become!" The demon said, his eyes black. The drops of blood of its face looked like freckles._

Dean looked into the reflection of the razor he was holding, and saw his own eyes. There was nothing black about them. The demon had been wrong about that. At least so far.

But what he couldn't see made up for in what he felt. His eyes were still green-hazel within the white sclera, and pierced intricately. But something was different. Dean couldn't say what, but he could have sworn he felt the blackness in them. The blackness which had changed him, not from the living to the dead but from Dean to... something else. And he had no idea what that was.

But he had changed. He was no longer the "good soldier" John had moulded him into. He didn't just feel the darkness – he carried it, observed it, exhaled it. It had became a part of him, and was stronger than who he had used to be. He hadn't yet decided whether it was a good thing or not. He assumed only time would tell.

Dean traced his nail against the blade. The metal was so shiny no mark was left, and he took pleasure in realizing just how sharp it must be. He had sharpened it himself, after all. The pride of it was more powerful than the pleasure, if he was being honest. Sharpening using a stone or another similar tool was overrated in Dean's opinion. Who would have guessed that bones from what was once a human would work so effectively? And what better bones to use than the ones he'd just grated to fibres and snapped out of place?

The latest soul had gone quiet, given the fact that revenge had sucked out his vocal chords. They were left drooping in a puddle of plasma on the floor. Only a low gurgling noise could be heard, and Dean had almost completely tuned it out. Alastair wasn't here. After Dean's last exceptional performance, he had decided Dean was ready to try one soul unsupervised. Dean had jumped at the chance.

Dean placed the razor back down on the table with a small clatter. It echoed ominously in the empty room. He turned around.

He held a syringe in his left hand, and in his right was a drill. Alastair had given it to him, and it was powered. Dean had briefly wondered about how there was electricity or power in Hell, but he had soon pushed the thought away. By now he should have known that some things in Hell just didn't really need an answer.

He walked from the table towards the soul mounted and splayed on the rack. He placed the syringe down beside him and began the drill. It echoed noisily around the room, shrill and threatening. Dean didn't try to hold the man still – it was more fun seeing his panic and try to squirm out of reach. Dean scoffed at the fact that even still, they thought they might make it out of this unharmed. _Good luck,_ he always smirked to himself.

So without holding the man still or tightening the chains and hooks, Dean dove down with the drill into the man's chest. He slashed through the skin and veins, sending skin fibers and blood splashes everywhere – over Dean's shirt, his face, the floor. But he didn't stop. He pressed down, and loved the feeling of the drill slicing through more arteries, muscles, flesh. It was spongy yet hard. Dean didn't care to ponder the oxymoron of it.

At last the drill seemed to be slowing as what it cut through turned harder. Dean smiled slightly to himself, and grasped the drill tighter in two hands. He didn't just lean down into it – he thrust it forward, ramming it down hard as he felt it finally make contact with the hard bone, the sternum.

The resistance was weak. No bone of what was once a human could ever stand up to a "blunt little instrument" wielding a weapon in front of determination and hatred. Dean grinned to himself when he remembered that that was what John had thought of him. A _blunt little instrument_. Well, the demon had at least been right about that. At the time, Dean just hadn't imagined it could ever have been true. But times had changed.

The hole was well and truly through the man now, starting from the top and showing a cylinder and space down through his chest and the sternum. It didn't quite go all the way to the point of showing the ground below, but that had never been Dean's intention. He had much better ideas than that. He was a Winchester, after all. But the hole had to be wider, so he tore it apart to get a bigger diameter.

Dean tossed the drill aside, but not after dragging it up the man's face. Blood gushed out and teeth fragments, pieces of the chopped tongue and flesh flew erratically into the air. Dean left the drill on the ground and picked up his syringe. _Good_, he thought to himself. The fuel inside it was still full to the top. He drove down with it into the hole he had just made and injected it all in to the man's heart, after much wriggling and manoeuvring into the darkness. Fuel came pumped out the heart. Dean wasn't done yet.

He reached behind him and picked up the flamethrower that rested there. It was smaller than usual, which suited Dean perfectly. Without wasting time, he aimed it down the hole he had made, angling it in the general direction of where the fuel was pooling. The flame was released, and he watched the man's heart ignite, along with the rest of him.

But it wasn't enough. He wanted this man to burn, to literally _burn in hell_. So he walked back to the table – stoically – and picked up a Molotov cocktail left for him. Alastair had come through as always. Dean had always wondered how Alastair always managed to get exactly what Dean wanted without even having to ask. But that was irrelevant.

He turned around and gave the shredded fragments of a soul one last look. He didn't fear what might happen because he knew he would be protected. Down there in Hell, he was immune to pain he caused. Only upon others could he inflict it. Smiling slightly in a sardonic manner, he threw the bottle towards the man and watched it as it fell perfectly into the hole. The glass shattered, and the man was engulfed in flames. Satisfied, he dumped everything behind him and left the body on the rack to melt. He left through the metal door.

Dean's eyes weren't black yet. But oh, how he loved the feeling of knowing his soul was.

He let the door slam shut behind him. But he never expected what was waiting for him on the other side.


	6. Visionary Reckoning

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and gain no profit from this**

**Author's Note: WHO ELSE LOVES THE NEW SEASON! If you haven't seen the first 2 (3 now) episodes yet, watch them! I think I'm addicted to *****'s laugh at the end of the first episode :D**

The clash of the concrete door against the metal door frame echoed behind Dean. It juxtaposed the eerie quiet that surrounded him. But he barely heard it.

Alastair was leaning against the wall casually with a smug look on his face. His arms were folded and his right eyebrow moved subtly, almost to the point of wriggling. Dean knew that look. Every time Alastair wore it, it meant the same thing: Alastair was proud of himself and – judging from Dean's experience – that was never a good thing.

He smirked at Dean. "Heard what you were doing in there," he said. "It sounded pretty impressive. I didn't think you'd actually find a use for that flamethrower. Apart from engulfing of course. But you were creative – and I applaud you for what you crafted out of using my drill and cocktail."

Dean shrugged uneasily. He didn't really need Alastair's praise. He enjoyed hearing the compliments, but Dean had long ago realized that he was good. Talented, even. Not quite up to the black belt level he considered Alastair to be, but hell, practice would make perfect.

"I have something to show you," said Alastair, smugly. Dean looked around discreetly, expecting to see another soul appear. But there was none, nor was there a rack nearby. Alastair laughed.

"No, no, something different this time," he said. "First though, I want to remind you of the leaps and bounds you've taken since your arrival. Remember that wimpy, daddy's little girl you once were? Too afraid to even pick up a knife? Too proud to even acknowledge to yourself that you wanted to?"

Dean said nothing but glared back at him. He had changed dramatically, sure, but he had never been that weak. He had always been a warrior.

"Well, my point is that you've clearly progressed drastically. You've done well regardless of whatever soul I've thrown your way. The only question now is... will it matter _who_ the person is..." Alastair trailed off mysteriously, loving his dramatic tone.

Dean didn't like the sound of this. For one thing, Alastair was doubting him. This rifled Dean; he was capable of anything. But secondly, he didn't know if he was yet ready to torture someone he actually knew – even if he'd only known them in his past life. Did he have the strength to look into those eyes and do it anyway? He'd done it to Bela, but she barely counted. He never did like her anyway. He tried not to smile as he remembered how he _carved into that weeping bitch_. He didn't show it, but inside he grinned at the thought.

There was a pause as Alastair could see Dean contemplating. He showed his devilish glint in his eye and he cocked an eyebrow. Then he broke the silence with, "You want to see Sam?"

Dean froze. "What?" he asked confusedly. _Sam_.

Alastair laughed ominously. "I asked if you wanted to see Sam?"

Dean said nothing, then asked "...Sam?", uneasily. Alastair nodded.

"Don't worry, Dean. He's not here. Not yet anyway. We haven't been able to take him down. Damn him for his exorcism skills... if it wasn't for that demon blood he's been chugging – "

"What?" Dean interrupted.

Alastair returned to his smug face. "What, didn't you know?" he said maliciously. "Remember your good pal, Ruby? Well, she really has her hooks into Sam now. She has far more of an impression of him now than you ever did. Did I mention what a good team they are? Anyway, it seems like Sam's found a new drive in life. And no, it's not rock salt or Latin or whatever methods you fooled yourself into thinking were truly effective. He's drinking the blood or my soldiers. And don't try to flatter yourself or him by thinking you are in power – my demons are offering it to him. They're only pretending to be putting up a fight. But really, this is our plan. See, little Sammy is going to get so dependent on it that when the time comes, he won't be able to resist it."

Dean stared blankly, uncomprehendingly. "When _what_ time comes? And resist what?" he asked. Alastair looked slightly amused.

"You have no idea, do you?" Alastair grinned, his lip curling spitefully. "Didn't think so... but don't worry yourself over it. You'll see what I mean. But like I asked... do you want to see Sam?"

"See him how? He's not even here," Dean growled with irritation. Alastair smirked.

"No, but that can be arranged," he said ominously. He reached out and touched Dean's hand. Within a split second, Dean found himself no longer standing in the dark concrete bunker of hell, but rather in a parking lot of a seemingly-rundown motel. Earth.

"What is this?" Dean asked.

"Don't you recognize it? This, Dean, is the motel where you died repeatedly. As much as I hate that archangel Gabriel, I have to say he had some good ideas. My favourite had to be the falling piano. Not overly creative but there was just something about it. But of course you don't remember any of this. Gabriel took care of that. Personally, I wish he let you remember. Then you could've remembered the pain each day brought you. Maybe then you'd have a bit more rage than the weakling you are now," Alastair taunted. Dean said nothing.

"But that's unimportant. Go up there," Alastair pointed to the second floor of the motel, towards a door. "Sam's in there."

Dean didn't move. He turned his face to look at Alastair with doubt. "You're lying," he stated.

Alastair shrugged and shook his head. "I'm not lying, Dean, but if you don't want to believe me, we can always go back downstairs and skip this opportunity."

Dean said nothing but looked back up towards the door. The light was on in the motel room; Dean could just make it out through the closed blinds. He decided he had nothing to lose – although he sincerely doubted Alastair – and walked towards the stairs.

He arrived outside the door. Number 12. He didn't go in but stood there uncertainly. He looked back down to the parking lot. Alastair was gone. Instead, he appeared in a flash beside Dean, with that stupid smile on his face.

"It's locked, Dean," he smirked. "The standing outside the door was just for dramatic effect," he said, chuckling at his own humour – Dean didn't find it funny at all – and he touched Dean's arm. Within an instant, they had left the outside world and were inside the motel room.


	7. Whirlwind

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and gain no profit from this at all**

At first Dean couldn't see anything. One minute he had been outside in the dark and rain, and suddenly he was in a room that actually had lighting. That on its own would cause any eyes to have to adjust, but Dean had been trapped in hell's darkness for years so for a second he was sure his eyes were burning out. After what felt like several minutes of piercing needles stabbing through his eyes to his brain, he managed to stop squinting and make out what he was looking at. There was still a cloud in front of him but the fog was slowly dissipating. He could feel Alastair's presence next to him – cold, muggy and as if Dean had been plunged into hell's literal manifestation on earth. Things slowly came into focus. He made out the furniture in the room, the wallpaper, the atmosphere – all of it seemed dull, depressing and for a second he really had to wonder if he was actually out of hell. Then he saw Sam.

Sam was sitting on the sofa, with his back turned away from Dean and his shoulders hunched. Dean couldn't see his face, but he knew, just _knew_ that it was Sam. He could tell from the messy hair that looked like it hadn't been washed or combed in months, and it was matted from something that had splashed over it. But the rest was just as Dean had remembered. He was still tall enough to loom over Dean – even if hell that still annoyed Dean, that his younger brother had outgrown him – and clearly he had been working out. Obviously he was taking hunting just as seriously as he had when Dean was still alive and definitely didn't look a bit out of shape.

"Sam..." Dean called out and started to move towards him. He could feel the beginnings of a smile begin to form on his face and it shocked him – he hadn't smiled in so long that he was surprised he knew how to anymore. He'd smiled in Hell, sure, but a very different smile – an evil, borderline-sadistic smile that he only used to make him seem that much more threatening to his victims as he slaughtered their souls. He'd just taken a step forward when he felt Alastair's hand reach out and hold his arm, pulling him back.

"Don't, Dean," Alastair said. "He can't hear you. You're dead, remember?" he smirked. Dean shrugged him off and walked over anyway.

"Sam?" He finally came to Sam's side and looked at him, and literally took a couple steps back in shock. Sam had blood all over his chin, dripping out of his mouth and his eyes were half-closed. He was slumped against the back of the sofa, looking almost asleep, but held in his hand and resting on his lap was a cup, cheap-looking and from the motel. The rim was a ring of red, trickling thickly down the outer edge. Dean didn't know what it was but was still looking at Sam's face in confusion and slight alarm. The cup was otherwise empty

Then, from behind him, he heard a noise. The door to the bathroom opened slightly and light streaked out. A girl who looked in her mid-20s emerged and stepped out. She was of average height, with thick brown hair (although it could've been black) and as she saw Sam, she smiled slightly and slowly walked towards him.

Dean didn't know who she was, still half-hidden in the darkness of the dimly-lit room. But he could just make out the smile and he definitely didn't like what he saw. Her smile was a smirk, and seemed to be concealing the truth behind it far too effectively. Dean knew that smile. It was the one the sadist in him wore every time he picked up a burning, chiselled iron and drove it through someone's eyes. It yearned for the sizzle that always arose, and even the smell of burning skin that filled the air. _Roast pork._ Mmm.

She took another step forward and now everything but her face was in the light. Dean looked down at her arms and saw her wrists were bleeding. The cuts weren't savage but rather clean and as if done with purpose. Even from his distance, Dean could see through it into the flesh that lay behind. Snapped fibers, ruptured veins and dazzling paint. It streaked down her arms, drop by drop, and as it did so, Dean saw Sam stir out of the corner of his eye. "Ready?" she asked. She walked closer towards Sam and she stretched out her arm just as she walked into a ray of light coming out from under the cheap lampshade. This finally illuminated up her face to Dean.

She was hideous, and clearly a demon. Dean was still retaining his skill of seeing behind a host's mask and seeing the demon wearing it. On the outside the host may have been pretty – or ugly, there was no way for Dean to know – but seeing her true form made him realize just how demented and disfigured she really was. Her 'face' was contorted and rotten – obviously she had died and become a demon many, many years ago. Dean half-expected to see maggots crawling out of those holes that once may have had clean eyes, but not were just lumpy craters of decomposing flesh. Her skin had completely lost any cleanliness or shade of skin colour she'd once had; now it was hard to tell if it really was skin or just whatever the previous skin had grown into. The holes in her face were black and lonely – the black eyes were the only way for a demon to show an ordinary person who exactly they were.

While trying to absorb the horror, he watched as she was now nearly on top of Sam's lap. This was disgusting. Dean wanted to cry out, yell, scream, do _whatever_ he had to do to get Sam's attention, to tell him that she was a demon and to get rid of her. But he couldn't, he knew that. But when she raised her bloody arms to his lips and angled the cuts on his lips, Dean knew this was something else entirely. Sam's eyes opened, and Dean expected to see them widen in alarm before he did whatever possible to kill her. But Sam didn't, in fact – Dean was horrified to see – he accepted her wrists and dragged his lips across the seeping wounds. An almost-drugged look came over him and he slowly smiled.

"There you go, Sam," she whispered softly and finally brought her wrist back down. Sam looked longingly at it. "Don't worry," she added overly-serenely. "There's far more where that came from."

"Sam!" Dean finally shouted out. He knew Sam wouldn't hear him but he didn't care, he had to try to get his attention. He even made a movement forward as if to throw her back off of him. Whether he would go to Sam first or kill the bitch, he had no clue, but he never got a chance to figure out. Alastair reacted instantaneously and grabbed his arm, holding him back.

"No, no, no, grasshopper," he sneered. "You can't do anything for him. He can't see you... not that he would want to anyway. He's with her now," said Alastair, and he turned to grin at Dean. "He's one of us now."

Dean tried to shove him out of the way, but even Dean found himself overcome by Alastair's strength. As he tried to wrestle his way free, he caught a glimpse of the two of them on the sofa again. For a second, he was almost certain that the demon had turned to looked at him and – although he was sure he was imagining it – it appeared that she was almost giving him that sadistic, small smile. That was when it clicked. He finally remembered where he'd seen that face before, not the host but the true demonic face behind it.

Ruby. He hadn't seen that face since the night he'd been torn apart by the hellhounds and his time had run out. But there it was again, as repulsive as it had ever been. Before Dean could ever begin to actually register it, Alastair had pulled him back again and was whispering cockily in his ear.

"Time's up."

"Sam!" That was all Dean managed to shout out before he was being sucked into what could only be considered a whirlpool of air. The faces, furniture and atmosphere of the room all contorted into each other and the last part of Sam that Dean saw was satisfaction on his face as Ruby inched closer.

Within a second, they were back in hell. The grey walls and concrete slabs connected to long, ominous, echoing corridors were all too familiar to Dean. "What the hell was that?"

Alastair raised an eyebrow and looked slightly amused. "Well... I can't always control what you see up there. The world is a very dark place m'boy. I'm sorry if he's moved on," he said, looking apologetic but clearly mockingly.

"Not that, them! Ruby... and Sam?"

"Yep... personally, I don't exactly approve of it either. She's a dark demon that one, and she will be punished. Fraternizing with a Winchester... feeding him our blood. It's only a matter of time until I get my hands on her," said Alastair, only now showing the closest thing that could be considered emotion.

"But, despite that, at least maybe this will entice you to take your role down here a little more seriously. You've seen for yourself that Sam has moved on now. Not only does he not care about you, but he's actually turned to the demons. They did that to him – once he was your lil' brother but now he's one of them. So what do you say Dean? Time for a little more revenge?" Alastair asked, and held out a razor-sharp fang of some slaughtered animal. The blood was still streaked across it and Dean could even see some flesh that had been ripped out of the mouth along with it.

"... a fang? Really?" Dean asked doubtfully, with open scorn.

Alastair shook his head good-naturedly. "Never underestimate the power of a fang, Dean," he answered. He dropped it into Dean's now-outstretched hand. "If you continue to impress me... I'll get you your surprise. And you'll enjoy it," he said mysteriously.

Dean looked down at the fang. It looked pathetic – how much damage could he really do with a fang? The past slaughters he'd done had consisted of Molotov cocktails, flame throwers, weapons... but, he had to remind himself, even ordinary kitchen tools had been effective. He may as well give it a go.

"Alright," he shrugged, and gestured down the corridor. "That way?"

Alastair smirked.

"Oh, yeah..."

**By the way, I realize that in the show, when Dean gets out of hell, it's a while before he realizes that Sam's been drinking demon blood etc but I'll make up something in a later chapter(s) so that it stays as consistent as possible. **


	8. Tactile Spirits

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and gain no profit from this at all**

Dean had no idea about what exactly the fang was. He was simply taking Alastair's word for it that the fang was really just a fang. Yet what Dean didn't know was that the fang was far more destructive than Dean would have guessed. Dean had been expecting an ordinary pointy tooth that wouldn't do much use further than simply stabbing and poking the body. But what Alastair hadn't told him was that the fang was one of Alastair's own "creations" – yes, it was on the surface just a fang, one that a hellhound had left behind in a victim. Unusually, the fang had travelled with the soul as it came downstairs. The soul kept its same body, as they all do down in hell, and with that body, the fang sticking out. Alastair had been overjoyed and had ripped it out.

But the fang was more than just the remainder of a soul collection. The fang harboured its own lethal weapon inside it, far more deadly than any normal tooth would ever be. The fang held the spirit of he who had been ravaged by the hellhound. An angry spirit that, like Dean, deep down wanted to inflict pain and torture on others without mercy. The fang might be inanimate, but its power was anything but. Dean loved the feeling of holding it in his hands. It was so smooth and shiny, and shockingly white – he didn't think he'd even see white that bright since he arrived in Hell. He let it run through his fingers, enjoying how his fingers effortlessly flowed over the curves. He did however take care to avoid the tip. The fang might be gorgeous, but its point looked sharper than any of the knives Alastair had ever offered him.

Dean also had no idea how many souls were contained in the fang, yet Alastair knew. Only one soul was trapped in there. The actual soul, no, but using it would evoke the presence. This was what Alastair had been waiting for, for thirty years now. He smiled as Dean shut the metal door behind him. Alastair didn't have much time to reminisce and wait excitedly alone though, as he heard protruding footsteps behind him. He didn't even have to turn around to look. He knew those footsteps.

"Ah," he smirked, still facing away from whoever had entered. "So you're returned."

The voice replied "Yes. Who else would I allow to beckon me?" Alastair heard the mocking tone beyond the words.

"You're wise, Meg," Alastair remarked as he turned around to look at the approaching demon. Meg smirked confidently. She hadn't changed much since the last time that Alastair had seen her. The only difference was that she now had a new host.

"What are you wearing?" Alastair asked.

Meg looked down at herself. "Kindergarten teacher... I think. I found her behind a playground. Pretty, isn't she?" Meg asked, giving a mock twirl. Her hair was dead straight, very dark brown and almost black, with a few simple light blue highlights at the tips. Not so obvious to be the first thing to be noticed, but enough to give a sense of the young woman's personality. She wore black skinny jeans and dark purple shoes that looked like they weren't branded. She also wore a casual blue T-shirt with some design that Alastair had never seen before, not that he would have cared to place it. On top of that was a dark brown jacket that finished the outfit. Her makeup was noticeable yet subtle. Yes. Pretty indeed.

"I see... and have you been making yourself useful up there? You're not having a _vacation_," Alastair pointed out, still smirking yet his voice had slightly more seriousness. Meg looked back defiantly.

"Of course, every little moment," she replied.

"And you've been watching baby Winchester?" Alastair pressed.

Meg nodded. "Yes. He's still with _her,_" she said, not needing to explain who 'her' was. "I think we're getting closer."

"... Good. It's been three months up there, and she's screwing us all unless she gets something going soon. I hope for her sake she doesn't get exorcised anytime soon. There are a whole lot of us down here just waiting for her to return."

"He barely seems to register Dean's existence anymore," Meg continued. "He drives around in that ugly car, but that's it. He's not hunting, not killing... he _thinks_ he is but all he's doing is giving in to her control," she paused as if to think. "Where is Dean, anyway?"

Alastair titled his head towards the door. "In there. Workin' on that newcomer, the pathetic weepy one that arrived yesterday."

"Can I watch?" Meg asked excitedly. Alastair looked at her, unamused.

"Of course not. You have work to do," he replied.

"Well... have you given it to him yet?" she asked. Alastair paused.

"Yes... he has it in there now. He better use it right..." Alastair trailed off.

Meg looked confused. "You didn't tell him what it is?"

"No, I thought it'd be better if he came across that on his own. It'll be like... forcing him to confront his past."

Meg said nothing for several seconds. "Well... I hope you know what you're doing. This could backfire. You do know who we're dealin' with," she said.

Alastair looked at her tightly. "I know. And Dean will too, once he drives it down." He said nothing for a minute, then looked back at Meg who was looking slightly bored and scuffing her shoes on an imperfection in the cement below her. "What are you still doing here?" he asked. "Go back upstairs," he ordered.

Meg rolled her eyes unamusedly but knew better than to challenge her superior. "And do what?" she stalled.

"You know what to do. Watch him. Help Ruby if you need to, but whatever you do: do NOT let him see you. You may be wearing someone new but you've still got that same sassy attitude he'd notice anywhere."

Meg pushed herself up from the slouched position she'd had against the wall and started to walk out of the empty room. "Sure thing," she said sarcastically.

"Oh, and Meg?" Alastair asked quietly, no longer looking at her. Meg looked back with a toss of her head. "Yes?" she asked.

"When you see Ruby, when she's finished with Sam and everything's over... make sure you bring her down here. Or at least, have someone send her down here. I'll need to settle some things with her."

Meg recognized that ominous tone. It wasn't joking, or sarcastic like it usually was. It was lower, quieter and purposeful. More than that, it was the same tone Meg herself had only heard him use several times. It was the tone all the demons were wary off and it meant very bad news indeed. Meg felt her eyes wander over to the display of torture tools thrown messily on a concentrate table pushed to the side of the room. Knives, saws, syringes, daggers, a makeshift rack... she turned her gaze towards Alastair's back.

"Yes, Alastair..." she said softly, likewise with a notable decrease in her usual sassiness. "Absolutely," she finished, and walked backwards through the open door she had come in, not taking her eyes off of Alastair. As she left, she shut the door behind her.

Alastair, hearing the metal handle go still and the loud echo of entrapment, smiled and waited for Dean to re-emerge.

Inside the room, Dean was looking down at the man on the rack. There was nothing special about this man. Normal hellhound wounds, boring clothes, fearful look. Dean had already done his usual tricks with Alastair's weapons – by now he considered those a warm up. He had yet to use the fang though and he ran his hand over the outline of the fang in his pocket. Tempting, though it felt a bit stupid.

"Well, here's nothing," he muttered to himself and pulled the fang out.

The man began to plead. "Please don't," he said quickly. "This is a mistake, I'm not meant to be here! I'm not a bad person!" he insisted, writhing around on the rack.

Dean cocked an eyebrow and looked down without amusement. "Really, buddy, you don't think I've heard that one before? Well, guess what. No mistake, you do deserve to be here, and I'd say there's at least a _little _part of you that is bad. Sound about right?" he grinned maliciously.

"You don't want to do this," the man tried again. "You're not like the monsters here!"

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed. There was a long dramatic pause and Dean slowly dropped his hand down. He closed his eyes and leant his weight forward on the rack using his palms. "Exactly."

The man paused, and his eyes widened in surprise. Had he convinced him that easily?

"You're not wrong," Dean continued, looking him in the eyes. He felt his fingers tighten around the fang. "I'm not like these monsters. No... I'm far, far worse," he said, and following that, with all his strength in his now-unbelievably-toned upper arm, he drove down with the fang's point into the man's throat.

The fang sliced through easily and released the man's screams. Alastair had obviously been right in that respect. But Dean never expected what came next.


	9. Apparition

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and gain no profit from this at all**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I want to say a public thank you to 67impalalover for not only being a regular reviewer but also for reminding me that John didn't die from Hellhounds, which is one mistake that would have made this whole chapter been inaccurate had I gone with my original idea! **

The man stopped screaming and tilted his gaze to Dean's. His eyes slowly changed from fearful to darker. The air went colder and the man's face changed to calmer, yet almost threatening. Dean froze momentarily out of confusion. This had never happened before. Usually the victim would just continue to scream until he was finished. But now, the change in the man was so marked it could almost be comedic – he literally just stopped screaming and had turned to Dean. But Dean sensed this was something else, yet Dean was still so surprised that he still stood there motionless, with confusion on his face.

The man didn't move much. His eyes simply wandered down as far as they could. Lying on his back, his visual field didn't extend down to his neck, but that didn't matter. He could feel it. The chains around his wrists and arms binding him to the rack popped open. He raised a hand and aimed it up to his neck. He calmly wrapped his fingers around the fang and in one fluid motion, yanked it out. A hiss of air was heard, and the man coughed. Not out of difficulty to breathe, but almost as if of offense.

Now Dean was starting to react. Nothing like this had ever happened before, but despite that, he had to act fast, to subdue the escaping soul. He dropped the fang (he should've gone with his gut instinct from the start and picked something he was used to) and reached behind quickly for a machete, to beat the man back down onto the rack.

But the man was already half sitting and prepared for Dean's attack. As Dean raised the machete, the man calmly held up a hand. No contact was needed. The machete flew from Dean's grip and spun through the air behind into the corner. Dean followed it and Dean was thrust through the air by the man's power. He landed hard on the cement as he bashed into the wall. _Damn_. Even in Hell, that still hurt. Not that that had happened in the past thirty-something years.

"Get up."

Dean looked at the man in even more shock. Was that an _order_? Regardless, he pushed himself up to stand, and used the back of his hand to wipe away some of the blood above his eyebrow. But he hadn't given up his fight yet. He could overpower this one, he had all the tools. He didn't know how this man had any powers, but he ignored that. Dean reached back for the machete.

"Don't," the man said quickly with authority. He held up his hand again, and Dean flinched. But nothing happened. "Let's just talk like adults."

Dean was still shocked but figured there was something... special about this man. The rack's chain shouldn't have broken. Dean knew for a fact that Alastair personally serviced those racks and escape would be by no means possible. Unless it was intentional...

But Dean had no time to ponder that, because the man spoke again. "Dean..." he said with a smile, yet not of warmth but as if he were tired and possibly almost disappointed.

"Who are you?" Dean finally asked in his gruff tone.

The man looked surprised, though Dean personally thought it looked feigned. "Don't you recognize me?" the man asked.

Dean studied the face. "...No..." he replied.

The man sighed and looked down. "That's too bad. This could've been a reunion," he said quietly, yet when he looked up there was anger in his eyes. The man then looked back up.

"It's me, Dean... Sam."

Dean stared, uncomprehendingly. "What is this?" he asked bitterly. "Is this some kind of joke? Because it's not funny!"

The man shook his head. "No joke, Dean. This man here? He's not Sam. But I – _inside_ – am. Except I'm... not how you remember me," he said gingerly.

"This is crap," Dean interrupted. He saw the fang lying on the floor and stomped on it hard then sent it flying into the far, dark corner. "I know my brother, and you are not him. And there is no way, _no way_ that he would be here in Hell! So, tell me, who the hell are you?"

"I already told you, Dean. It's me, Sam. And I'm from the future."

Dean rolled his eyes scornfully. "The future? Give it a rest, buddy. I don't know what you are, but you are _clearly _a demon, and this... trick or joke, whatever it is, is not going to work on me, so you can cut out the Dickens crap!"

"This isn't a Christmas Carol scenario, Dean, I'm not here to get you to change your ways. But you have to listen to me, and why I'm here. First of all: stop looking at the door," Sam instructed. "Alastair's not coming in, he knows I'm here. Why do you think he would give you that fang? My soul – my _future _soul – was trapped in it, and he's just been waiting to give it to you. The minute you used it, my soul came out. That man on the rack before? The one you see standing here?" Sam gestured to the body he was in. "He had nothing to do with me, he really was just another victim of yours."

"Alright, let's say I believe you, which I _don't_, but whatever," Dean began. "Why would he want a future Sam to confront me now, here in Hell? He's the one who went on and on about how present-day Sam only cared about Ruby and had forgotten about me because I told him to."

"Yeah, well that was all true. Back then, I did move on. Not from not caring, but because you were all I had and I had to find a way through it," Sam began, but then stopped. "Look, Dean, this isn't a therapy session or a dramatic reunion. But I'm here for a purpose, and it's important."

"Well, what is it?"

Sam paused for a long minute. He looked uncomfortable, but finally continued. "You need to find Dad."

Dean stood there, practically with his mouth open. "Umm... you sure you've come back in the right time period?" he asked awkwardly. "We've done this dance before, we spent a year looking for him. We found him... but then he died..." he said slowly, wondering if – and how – Sam could have forgotten.

But Sam was shaking his head. "That's true, he did die. He was in Hell, just like you here..." Sam trailed off, looking around at the bunker room. A sad expression came over his face, but he continued on anyway. "But he escaped, when the Devil's Gate was opened."

"Yeah, I remember that... but wouldn't he have been trapped back down here after? Most of the demons ended up that way."

"No, he didn't. He's still out there, just... under the radar. Ever since that night, till the night you died, he was still out there."

"How do you know? He was just a spirit."

Sam took a while to respond. "Even spirits can find a way to come back, and stay existing."

Dean frowned slightly. "Well, even if he is still out there... what do you want me to do about it? How would I even find him?"

Sam shrugged slightly. "This may sound harsh, Dean, but you're more of a demon than you are a human." Seeing Dean's expression, he added quickly, "It's not your fault, but that's what happens when you're down here. It's been nearly forty years, Dean. Look at what you've been doing... and what's been done to you."

Dean slowly looked away and at the tools scattered around the floor. Blood everywhere. Feelings of ecstasy each time. He looked back at Sam and said nothing. He didn't have to. So Sam continued.

"You have abilities, Dean. Abilities that you would never have up on Earth, and those usually take a century to acquire. But you've done it in less than half. I'd say that means you're pretty powerful. So, you're fit to take him on."

"But what for? Even if he is lurking out there, what's wrong with that?"

"He's lurking out there now, Dean, but remember: I'm from ten years later than what you're thinking. Dad comes back and – call it cheesy – with a vengeance. He's no longer the man we remember, the soldier who trained us. He's darker, much darker. Living alone trapped in the in-between as a spirit is what did that to him. You know everything we hunted? He's just like that."

Dean sprung forwards and grabbed Sam by the collar and shoved him against the wall. Sam half-held up his hands in surrender, though it was more to keep the conversation civil. "Don't you dare say that. He's a Winchester, he'd never become one of them. You don't know what you're talking about!"

Sam easily pushed Dean off and made a big scene of tidying his clothes. "You're the only one who can do anything about it, Dean. If you can stop him now, you'll stop him from escalating to what I've seen and witnessed him to be. It's up to you."

Dean paused. He personally didn't believe the story, but something about it made him uneasy. "Just one question. What's Alastair's motif in this? Why would he use the future you to warn me? What does he care? Wouldn't he support an evil spirit trying to take over humanity?"

Sam appeared to be considering the best way to respond. "Well... Alastair has... a bit of a score to settle with Dad. You don't need to know the full story, but basically, Alastair never quite managed to break Dad in hell. He was... strong. All the time. He never succumbed to what Alastair wanted him to do... who he wanted him to be. For nearly a century down here... but the Devil's Gate opened and Dad escaped. Alastair's been looking for him ever since. Or rather, his demons have been."

Sam paused, then continued with more urgency. "We don't have long to talk, Dean. I don't know how long the power will work down here. But you have to escape Hell, whatever happens. Alastair might not let you out. He wants Dad, but he wants you more."

"But there's thousands of evil spirits out there, what's so bad about Dad being one of them? The spirits will always be aiming to destroy humanity. One won't make a difference," Dean argued.

"Dad's in a league of his own. Remember how knowledgeable he is about this stuff. He can't easily be killed or captured because he knows all the methods, and he's picked up all the demon's tricks. He's not a demon, but he may as well be one. He's smart, and he's lethal. He's a threat."

Sam suddenly stopped speaking and took a step back. "My time's up. I have to go..." he said quickly.

"Wait!" Dean said, and walked towards him. Sam looked at him. "How did you get here? I mean, I know you said your soul was trapped in the fang, but what does that mean?"

Sam hesitated, but decided to answer. "The fang devoured some of my soul, and... that was enough to trap it all in there."

"The fang?"

"Yes. The fang that killed me."

Dean stared. "What...?"

"I died a couple of years ago, Dean. Hellhounds. They came for me. Took my soul, took everything."

"H-hellhounds? You... you made a deal with a crossroads demon? Why would you do that?" Dean demanded.

Sam cut him off quickly. "I didn't make any deal. The hellhounds were commanded to kill me. Hellhounds can't usually be commanded to do anything by anyone other than those demons high up, but these ones were."

"By who?"

Sam didn't answer straight away, looking at the ground, but finally looked back up to answer. He didn't say anything verbally, but Dean saw it in his eyes.

"It wasn't... Dad?" he asked.

Sam slowly began to nod his head. "Yes, Dean," he said. "It was Dad who killed me."


	10. Buried Alive

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and gain no profit from this at all**

Silence.

"What... why would Dad kill you?" Dean finally managed to get out in words. Sam looked at Dean with a patient yet pained expression.

"Because that's what Dad has become. He's ruthless, hostile, a vengeful spirit that doesn't need a reason. He thinks of us as the cause of his death and we're humanity. His fight against humanity is everything to him now," Sam explained.

"But why you, why wouldn't he just wipe out an entire town to get his fix?"

"He could, sure, but they're not a threat to him. They're just... side dishes for him. It's hunters like us that are the main courses. Every hunter he devours, the stronger he gets. Not physically but... powerfully, more determined. It gives him the illusion that he's taking down each threat one at a time. The less of us there are, the higher chance there is of his survival."

"But we... we burnt his bones the night he died. We burnt all of him. There should be nothing left of him," Dean argued.

"We physically got rid of him, yeah. But Dean... part of him survived. Part of him lived on even after that, which is why he was one of the spirits freed from Devil's Gate. That tiny part of him that lived has grown since then, getting stronger by night and day. Now it's barely controllable."

"What part of him? What part could've survived being burnt?" Dean asked.

Sam paused and looked hesitant, but then tentatively said, "The part that lives in you."

Dean stared at Sam with an incredulous expression of a lack of understanding combined with doubt. "Lives in me?"

"Yeah... it happened the night he died. I know you told me about how you met the reaper and you were meant to be the one dying, and how at the last minute Azazel stopped it and Dad died instead. But that deal that Dad made had far more serious consequences than his death. You were the one who was meant to die. He was meant to live. When it was reversed, part of the life that Dad gave to you contained a part of him. It was never intended, and Azazel certainly didn't plan it to happen. But it did happen, because you and Dad have what is, I guess... an unbreakable bond. It's strong, Dean, we all know it. You were truly his son, right from the day he first taught you anything about our world. And that's what makes him part of you and, well... what's making him live on."

"But if I died... then why didn't that part die too?" Dean asked.

"The spirit is stronger than that, Dean. It's been to Hell once, it won't be stopped going back again."

"And where is it now?"

"Terrorizing a small town near the border between Arizona and Nevada, along the Colorado River. If you go there and find Dad – find his spirit – then you can kill him and end his vengeance. You know as well as I do that the future can be rewritten. If you kill him, you'll not only be saving ten years worth of victims but our memory of him, too."

"And you..." Dean murmured.

Sam slowly nodded. "Yes. Me too."

Dean paused, then looked back up. "But even if I kill the spirit, he won't really be dead. You said part of him is living in me."

Sam nodded again and continued. "Yeah, but you can get rid of that part. The thing is, Dean... it has to be you who kills him. I'm a good hunter, and continuing on without you has made me even stronger, but ultimately you have to be the one to kill him, because you have that part inside you. If you kill him, it'll be like he's being killed by himself. His own spirit will kill him. But if I kill him, there's a likely chance that he still won't really be gone."

"But it's Hell... I can't just leave Hell."

"I know. Alastair holds the key to that. And he knows we're talking here, but he can't see or hear me. Only you can, and I promise, as a spirit still floating up there on Earth, I will do whatever I can to get you out so you can find Dad. You won't be alive but that's all we can do."

"Okay..." Dean said uncertainly.

"So, you have to be sure that when the time comes, you are ready. Alastair would probably rather put himself on the rack and let you have at him than see you go back upstairs, even as a spirit. The time frame won't be long but do whatever you have to do to get out. Maybe I can open Devil's Gate again or something... regardless, you need to track him down."

Sam suddenly flickered as if the body was covered in visual static. "Time's running out, Dean. Find him while you still can," Sam hurriedly said and with that, disappeared. Dean, bewildered, looked around but saw nothing.

"Sam!" Dean shouted out, trying and desperately hoping that somehow he was still there in the room. But no answer came. "SAM!"

Silence.

Dean staggered over to the rack and leant his weight against it, reflecting on what Sam had just told him. John couldn't be a vengeful spirit – maybe he was gruff, a warrior and one of the most brutal hunters, but at the end of the day he was still John Winchester. The same John that had thrust baby Sam into Dean's arms in the fire that had shattered their once-idyllic lives and killed Mary.

"Take your brother outside as fast as you can, don't look back! Now Dean, go!" The words still lingered in Dean's head, unable to be removed or forgotten. Twenty-four years had passed since then, though being in Hell, it seemed closer to nearly sixty years. That was the John he'd never forget, the one who had scooped Sam and Dean up together in his arms as they raced away from the house right before the upstairs window exploded.

The same John who had taught Dean everything, _everything _about the supernatural. Dean remembered the first day he fired a gun. He remembered the cold feeling of his finger around the trigger, but more than that was the comforting warmth of John's finger wrapped around Dean's own finger. He'd helped Dean squeeze the trigger together, all while reinforcing the importance of having the right aim. On their first hunt, when Dean had stared into some demented phantom's soul (or lack thereof), Dean had been burning holes into its face not with fear or being paralyzed, but of determination, defiance and a thirst to make John proud. His birthday should've been spent in front of a cake and a camera, but no, with John it was in front of a clearing in the bush where they had been waiting for the witch to appear. She had, and Dean had finished her off effortlessly, much to John's delight.

Dean had other memories too, but these ones he pushed down deep into the hollowness inside him. Sometimes John's gruffness and expectations didn't mesh with Dean well, ranging from anything from his overly-strong need for Dean to watch Sammy to criticizing the upkeep of the Impala. "I wouldn't have given you the damn thing if I thought you were gonna ruin it," were the words Dean remembered, but he ignored them, just like he ignored the fight between Sam and John when they were finally reunited. Hearing him berate Sam for walking away when John and Dean needed him and Sam's hostile rebuke that it was John who had closed the door and said not to come back... Dean knew he'd be lying to himself if he claimed not to have heard the fiery wrath in John's voice. Thinking back, maybe it was, in a way, foreshadowing of the soul he would once be.

Dean heard the concrete door to the room slowly open with a low crack and whipping noise of torment. Alastair stood there and was smiling. Not as bright as he usually was, but almost as if he were uncertain.

"So, Dean? Did you appreciate the fang?" Alastair asked with a smirk. It took all of Dean's strength not to charge at him – Alastair was purposely taunting him with seeing Sam, otherwise he would have never given him anything containing the spirit. But Sam had told Dean that Alastair had no idea what their exchange was because he couldn't hear any of it. If Dean had any hope of getting out of Alastair's clutches – however temporarily it would be – until then he had to act natural. And he was, after all, Dean Winchester so putting on his resilient poker face was second nature.

"Nope, why would I?" he growled, staring back into Alastair's eyes. Finally breaking the contact, he reached behind for the machete that he'd dropped and looked back at Alastair with a questioning look. Holding it up, he asked:

"So who's next?"


	11. Demonic Revelations

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and gain no profit from this at all**

Hmm. That wasn't supposed to happen.

Alastair sat on the spare rack in the adjacent room, gritting his teeth with irritation. He was extremely dissatisfied with the Dean he had just seen. Obviously his fang-plan had not gone as expected. He knew it was Sam's spirit in the fang and he'd assumed that seeing his brother – even as a spirit from the future – would be enough to break Dean just that tiny bit more. Dean was an exceptional torturer and Alastair liked to think that it was he who had instilled that skill inside the Winchester. But Dean wasn't quite there yet. He still had too much _humanity_ inside him.

It was evident whenever Dean picked up a blade, or a flask of poison or whatever. Dean used it with panache, expertise and satisfaction but still, something was missing. It was the uncontrollable joy and the rush that Alastair knew he wasn't feeling. Alastair _always_ felt it when he was the one torturing the soul, even after all his years in Hell in that role. He also knew that nine out of ten demons felt it too. The odd demon out... he didn't know if it was a case of him just not being able to see the ecstasy conveyed, but regardless, that odd one always seemed to be Dean.

Not that Dean was a demon, of course. But Alastair had an eye for growth, and he could see Dean was developing. Dean was not yet manifesting any certain abilities, but Alastair was confident that in time he would. But nevertheless, he was unsatisfied. Dean should have emerged hostile, fiery and full of wrath, even in Hell, angry at having had to face his past. He should've yelled abuse and attacked Alastair, leading to a full-blown demon-human duel. But he hadn't. It was most disappointing.

But maybe he had just missed Dean's expression. He got back to his feet and strolled towards the door and as he stood outside with his hand on the metal handle, he paused to listen. He heard the unmistakable grunting noises of Dean he'd heard so many time – each represented a new cut, slice, tear, disembowelment, decapitation, whatever the case may be, and that at least was reassuring. He gently pushed down on the handle and opened the bunker door a couple of cracks, peeking in.

Well. Dean was certainly making the most out of the opportunity with this soul. Alastair watched as he picked up a sniper rifle that Alastair had artfully laid out for his use. Dean, ever the expert with firearms, prepared it effortlessly and pointed it at the victim's eye, with roughly only half an inch in between the eyeball and the barrel. Alastair guessed his intention. Dean, like anyone down here in Hell, had a pet peeve for the swivelling eyeballs that follow the torturer. Of course, they conveyed the emotions the soul was feeling, which was always fuel for revenge, but it did get somewhat unnerving after awhile. They had to be taken out. Immediately.

Dean fired with barely a second wasted. Alastair watched as the eyeball splattered in all directions, even slightly tilting his head to dodge the lens and fragments of white sclera that came flying towards him. The components of the eye went everywhere, and Dean carelessly smeared the vitreous humour that had landed on his lower lip as if it had exploded from a spigot. Good. One down, one more to go. Dean aimed the sniper at the second eye and did the same. If anything, this visual explosion was even more impressive. Pretty good, he liked to think. But now he wondered, where else could he fire a sniper at closer-than-point-blank range?

He didn't have long to ponder it, because suddenly there was a crack which felt like Dean's own auditory nerves were shattering, and the whole room seemed to shudder. Somewhere off in the distance a high-pitched scream echoed, and followed what sounded like a mix between an inner-throat growl and a lion's roar. Dean instinctively reached for the rack to steady himself. But Dean still hadn't noticed Alastair in the doorway, and was looking up at the roof. His first thought was that it had been an earthquake, but that was ridiculous. There were no earthquakes in Hell; it wasn't like Hell was situated on a map. The room slowly returned to normal, being still again and any echoing noises faded out. Dean cocked an eyebrow uncertainly. Huh. Weird.

He dropped the sniper behind him and it landed on the concrete with a clang. He rubbed his hands. What could he use next? He sauntered over to the table of interesting instruments and rolled his eyes. Some of the stuff that Alastair was offering him was just getting ludicrous. He picked up one and stared at it.

"A light bulb... seriously?" he muttered to himself. He knew Alastair was a bit nutty after being in Hell for so long, but even so. Dean twirled it around in his fingers, analyzing it. Well, if he could find uses for some of the other things he'd been given, surely he could be creative enough to use a light bulb. In a weird way, the stranger the instrument, the more fun the torture had been. He shrugged and carried it over in his hand to the rack.

The soul nearly laughed when Dean approached with it. Without his eyes, he couldn't see it at all, but his newly-found Hell intuition gave him all the information he needed. Relying on his other senses, he could hear the clink of Dean's ragged, uncut fingernails tapping the crystal, and practically felt the wires inside wriggling with the electricity it desired.

"A light bulb?" the soul taunted Dean. "Good one mate, but you'll have to do better than that to best me," it smirked.

"Oh, I don't doubt it," Dean smiled back good-naturedly. "But that's why we have all eternity to get it going."

Alastair had heard enough. He wasn't convinced that Dean was quite _there_ yet but he wasn't going to waste time watching anymore, not when he already had a fairly good idea of how effective and creative Dean's methods could be. Besides, he had errands to run upstairs, so he left the door closing behind him quietly before vanishing.

Dean had moved on past the light bulb by now. It had been effective and he was proud of how much damage he'd caused with jagged shards of glass. The soul looked like a kebab with shards sticking out of it at each end, and scattered around randomly in the middle. But Dean's fix was unfulfilled. He gritted his teeth impatiently and eyed the tools he hadn't yet used. Nothing jumped out at him. Damn Alastair for not giving him anything more fun.

"What's the matter, Dean?" a voice sang out behind him.

Dean jumped and spun around, peering through the darkness. The room was dimly lit with only one hanging lampshade above the soul on the rack. He frowned and squinted into the shadows. "Who's there?" he asked gruffly. Dean watched as a young woman emerged into the light, smiling as if this were some happy reunion, except for the fact that Dean had no idea who she was. She had long, dirty-blonde layered hair and was wearing a flowing, navy cocktail dress that ended just above the knees. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and was smiling sweetly at Dean. Dean had been in Hell long enough to know that a sweet smile is never actually sweet.

"Who are you?" he frowned. The woman gave him a condescending look and rolled her eyes.

"Am I that forgettable?" she asked, looking hurt, as if the possibility of Dean not recognizing her was devastating to her very soul – or lack thereof.

Dean had no time for being polite. "Obviously," he growled impatiently. The woman sighed and shook her head, unimpressed.

"Dean, Dean, Dean..." she said disappointedly. "Well, maybe this will jog your memory," she suggested. A bright flash followed and Dean, on reflex, shut his eyes and stepped back. When he opened them warily, the woman was gone, and instead in her place was a young girl she had morphed into. She looked to be about nine (but Dean was bad with ages) and had long, flowing blonde hair, wearing a white dress and a big smile plastered on her face.

"Remember me now?" she asked, brightly and hopefully. Dean was about to answer truthfully that no, he did not, but then it came back to him. He froze and scrutinized the face. She was still beaming up at him in an overly-angelic, pretty, not-so-innocent little girl manner.

"You..." he trailed off. "Lilith," he whispered, remembering the little girl Lilith had possessed right before Dean had died, in New Harmony, Indiana. The same little girl that had been forced to destroy the loving family she had, killing her grandfather, her pet Freckles and terrorizing the household.

The girl – now Lilith – jumped up and down, clapping her hands excitedly and giggling. "You do remember me, Dean!" she exclaimed and skipped towards him, wrapping her hands around his stomach and looking up at him with a glowing smile.

"Get off me!" Dean immediately fended her off, and backed away. The little girl's face turned back to disappointed and her body language changed to sulky.

"But we were just starting to get to know each other, Dean. We never had time up there to have any fun..." she whispered and pushed herself up to sit on the rack, looking at him with her big, sad eyes and swinging her legs in her childlike manner.

"Why are you here?" Dean asked. Lilith shrugged.

"I thought you might like to know about all the fun things your daddy's been up to," she answered, and as she smiled, she morphed back into the original, mid-twenties young woman she had been.

"What about him?" Dean glared at her.

Lilith smiled. "I guess Sam didn't tell you," she said. "Don't you know he's one of my followers? And a very devout one, I might add."

Dean stared at her. "What?"

Lilith feigned surprise. "Didn't you wonder how he'll be able to command hellhounds to kill your baby brother? Everyone knows that there were originally only two demons that can control and command those dogs. I'm one of them. You don't need to know who the other is. But yes, Dean – he's learning fast, and following in my footsteps. John Winchester! A name that's famous down here!" she exclaimed proudly.

Seeing Dean's confused expression, she added "What, didn't you know all the things he got up to down here? Ah, I suppose dear Sammy didn't tell you that part. Well, what Sam told you was all true – ten years from now, he _will_ be a vengeful, uncontrollable spirit. But what you've only missed out on knowing was that all of that behaviour has _already_ begun, here in the present day."

Dean said nothing, and inside refused to believe it. But Lilith could read it all in his face and smiled. "I guess Alastair didn't tell you that John lay on this rack – yes, Dean, this one right here – for nearly a century without breaking. It didn't matter how much it hurt, how many offers Alastair made, how _scrumptious _it would feel for John to dish his own out. He never gave in, much to Alastair's frustration. Which leads me to my next question: You _do _know why Alastair is our prime resident torturer, right?" she asked sweetly.

Dean cut her off. "Sweetheart, I know all about Alastair's sadistic methods, and believe me, after being here for over thirty years, I know very well what Hell is intended for," he answered tightly. He deliberately didn't mention what she'd just told him about John. He was refusing to believe it, not after Dean himself had only lasted thirty short years.

But Lilith shook her head. "No, no, no... I'm afraid you're not quite right, Dean," she said softly. "Alastair doesn't torture to be _mean_, or cruel, or to punish for what souls did on Earth. He's just... speeding along the human-to-demon process. Every cut, slice and rip he inflicts is just ripping away the humanity in the soul. That's what makes one a demon, Dean. Not death. Losing who you are, who you once were. And that's exactly what made John turn to me. All those years made his soul go dark, _very _dark. A hundred years of being pounded down into our ways. Clearly he didn't even need to carry out his own torture. Receiving it was enough to drive him demonic, and now he's one of us, because he knows that's where his loyalties lie."

"So now I can ask you, after your time spent here – who do you think _you _are?" Lilith questioned innocently.

"I'm the one who is going to watch you die, and believe me – when you get back down here, in whatever form is left of you..." Dean held up the seven-inch blade," I'm gonna be waiting," he said with a tight smile.

Lilith smiled back at him, unconcernedly. "Well, tell whoever good luck with that," she said. "But if I die... Daddy's only going to get stronger. Imagine a devout follower suddenly losing their leader. Do you _really_ think that's going to go over well on them? Because I don't. And, knowing John – he's going to get worse. _Much _worse. And soon."

"You're lying," Dean dismissed quietly.

Lilith shrugged and raised her eyebrows. "Perhaps. But I guess we'll soon see," she said.

With a final, angelic smile and a flash of her clear, white demon eyes, she vanished, leaving Dean alone in the room. Blood continued to drip out of the soul, pooling onto the floor.


	12. Dark Matter

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and gain no profit from this at all**

"Am I a demon?"

Dean looked hard into Alastair's coal-black empty orbs with a tightly-pulled frown. Alastair raised an eyebrow confusedly, though it was feigned.

"A demon? Why do you ask, Dean?" he replied curiously.

Dean dropped the blade down beside him carelessly. It tumbled through the air and smashed into the blood-stained concrete just as a lightning and its thunder whipped above him in the inferno. He didn't even flinch at the noise, but merely stared into Alastair's soulless vessel.

"That's what you want, isn't it? All this..." he gestured to the splatters and torn bodies and rotting flesh around him "it's not to offer me revenge, or my own twisted Hell-therapy... it's to turn me into a demon. Just... speeding along the process."

Alastair looked blankly but then slowly curled his lip and bared his teeth into a leering smile. "I won't try and deny that, Dean. Yes, I'll be honest. Why else would you be here?" he asked rhetorically.

Dean shifted his eyes and looked above him, where jagged nails had once frantically scratched at the rocks. Clearly they'd been desperate to escape from the inevitable. "So what's your big plan? Make me a demon, turn me to your side, then send me back there to unleash havoc and suffering on everyone?"

Alastair shrugged good-naturedly. He gestured to everything strewn around them. "Could you really claim to want otherwise?" he smirked.

Dean paused. He didn't even want to answer that. Before he could respond, Alastair interrupted. "What do you think a demon is though, Dean? You think we're some special species, exclusive from everyone else? _Everyone _has the demon-streak inside them – EVERYONE – some of us just show it more than others. Like you. It's just _bursting _out of you, we all know it. You don't need black eyes to see that. But, uh... speaking of black eyes..." Alastair held out a clean blade, with perfectly-clear metal, "What do you see?" he asked. "Go ahead," he encouraged with a brutal smirk, gesturing to the blade.

Dean didn't like the sound of that, but slowly reached his hand out for the blade. He looked at it warily but kept his peripheral vision cautiously on Alastair, ready for movement. Alastair however calmly stood there. Dean grabbed the blade and slowly raised it to his face. He gently turned it over, the shiny reflection facing upwards and with a start, looked into it and realized what he'd feared all along.

Dean's eyes had always been a sea-green, nearly hazel. They hadn't stood out until any of the very rare instances of crying, where they had gone piercing against what would be slightly-blotchy skin. This was particularly evident against the white sclera. But no, that was completely gone. Dean was staring at himself, into eyes of a sea of black tar – gritty, tainted and rushing through him. Its poison was spreading, both in and out of his soul. They were so black he could see the knife's reflection within the reflection of his eyes. The two were coexisting as mirrors in some sick, twisted reality.

Startled, he dropped the blade and it clattered to the floor as he jumped back. "No," he said angrily, to himself more than anyone else. "Never."

"There's no escaping it, Dean. This is what you have become," Alastair said simply. Dean looked up shocked as he recognized those words. Those were the words he as a demon has once said to his real self in a nightmare. He could tell on Alastair's face that Alastair knew that very easily. How he knew that, Dean didn't know, but nothing seemed to surprise him nowadays.

"Don't fight it!" Alastair insisted. "It's a gift, now you can embrace it, my friend!" he said enthusiastically. "Think of all the _wonderful _things you can do as a demon. You've got that raw vengeful fighting spirit that everyone secretly craves, they just don't normally have it in them. You're _so _valuable, both to yourself and, well, me..."

Dean was completely lost for words. "I... I can't be a demon. There's no way, alright? _No _way!" he lashed back. "Maybe I do carve and slice and forage through things, but that's not a demon. Demon's don't have a choice, I have a choice," he spat furiously.

Alastair was shaking his head. "_Did, _Dean. You _did _have a choice. And you made it when you made your deal. Sorry, Deano, but you're one of us now," he smiled. "If you need a little extra motivation, I'm, uh... always looking for a permanent protégé to take over for me when I can't be around. You might just be that person," Alastair suggested.

"And why exactly would I want to be that?" Dean shot back.

"Because you'll love the feeling of power. You'll fall in love with it so much, you'll literally _thirst _for it once you realize how life can be. We can work together, Dean. To, uh... take a certain someone down..." Alastair trailed off, looking pointedly at Dean.

Dean paused. "You don't need me for that," he looked away quietly, knowing what Alastair was referring to.

"Oh yes I do. Weren't you listening to what Sam said?" Alastair asked. Dean launched himself at Alastair, shoving him into a wall. Alastair could easily have blocked that attack, but allowed it for dramatic effect.

"Don't even say his name. You don't get that right," Dean whispered angrily. "You know nothing about me or Sam; _nothing_," he insisted through ragged, furious breathes that he tried to keep under control

"Oh but I do, Dean..." Alastair's familiar evil glint appeared back in his eyes. "And you know it, otherwise you wouldn't be struggling to hold back right now. Look down," he said simply.

Dean eyed him warily. "Huh?"

Alastair raised an eyebrow. "Look down," he repeated calmly, titling his head forward, and began to grin.

Dean had no idea what Alastair was getting at, but he dropped his gaze down and froze in shock at what he saw. Dean was not simply breathing like any other would with invisible carbon dioxide. No, what he was emitting was none other than dark, cloudy smoke, a mix of grey of black. It looked sort of like burnt ashes but smoothly bundled together rather than independent gratings.

Dean jumped back, releasing his hold on Alastair and stared at it in torment as it hit him what it was. If it wasn't the sight, it was the smell. The smell that he smelt every single damn day of his life, and one that was never good news.

"Sulfur," he murmured to himself. "Black smoke... No, no it can't be," he tried to reason. Alastair merely chuckled.

"Oh it is, my friend... The physical change is happening already! Yes Dean, it's true," he smiled proudly. "You're a demon now. Or at least, in the early stages of it. But it's happening!"

Before Dean could argue, Alastair continued "The only reason you're not completely a demon yet, Dean, is because you're still anxiously holding onto that tiny little bit of humanity inside you. The one that binds you to your brother – you know, the brother who _has _moved on without you – and the hope that Daddy's not as bad as they all say. Well, let it go, Dean. It'll only ever hold you back," Alastair encouraged amicably.

"But why do I get the feeling that you're just not interested in letting it go?" Alastair questioned, hardly expecting a response from the now-silenced Dean. "I think a, uh – little field trip is in order. It worked so well the last time," Alastair laughed. "Maybe that'll open up your eyes a little. It'll be fun, I'll show ya!" he said with uncharacteristic excitement – Dean could only assume it was some dark fantasy he would try to live out.

Quicker than Dean could react, Alastair reached out and grabbed Dean's throat. With a sadistic, wide-eyed smirk that was unfortunately only too true of Alastair, the two disappeared into that familiar grey whirl. They left the hole instantly.

When Dean next opened his eyes, he tried to adjust to the bright light of the sun, which he hadn't seen in forever. The next thing that hit him was the heat. Being in Hell had been oddly cold despite the conception that Hell was all fire. Suddenly being here, it felt like he was being burnt alive. The first thing he saw was – oddly enough – Alastair sitting on the edge of a small wooden dock, hanging his blood-and-dust-stained lower legs into the water. He seemed to be enjoying the coolness of it with a small smile on his face and closed, serene eyes. Definitely a strange image. A couple of people riding jet skis sped by, and the odd child was paddling in the shallow water in a bathing suit. This seemed unrealistically-idyllic. Dean simply stared, then slowly tore his gaze away and looked around. Where the hell had Alastair taken them?

"Look around, Dean! We're on the Colorado River," Alastair smiled as he turned to look at Dean. "And welcome to Laughlin, Nevada!"


	13. Becoming

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural **

Seeing Alastair eating in a hotel restaurant on Laughlin's main street was definitely something Dean would never expect to see. Well, technically he wasn't eating so much as 'sampling' nearly everything on the menu. Alastair seemed to think he had more class than he really did, judging by how he oh-so-casually ordered the most expensive and exquisite wines. Then he would act elitist as he drunk them, making disapproving faces as if even that $2,000 wine just wasn't good enough for him. But as weird as observing Alastair dining in a restaurant was, that was nothing compared to watching him try to charm and flirt – unsuccessfully, Dean might add – with the young waitress who wasn't having any of it.

"More caviar, Dean?" Alastair asked as he titled the flat serving plate towards Dean. He raised an eyebrow encouragingly. Dean glanced down at those tiny black and orange balls, then looked back up at Alastair.

"Uh, no thanks, I'm good..." he said distractedly. Alastair chuckled to himself as he drew the plate back. It occurred to Dean that because Dean was invisible here, but Alastair wasn't, anyone watching would think that Alastair was talking to an imaginary friend he was with.

"More for me, then!" he smiled. Dean looked away and rolled his eyes. This was ridiculous. At the back of his mind he couldn't help wondering if this was Alastair's new torture technique. He really just wanted this 'dinner' to be over with so Alastair might finally tell him what they were meant to be doing there. Once they were done, maybe life could go back to as normal as it had been – even if it _was _down in hell.

He was about to question it when Alastair started peering round the restaurant. He held his hand in the air and snapped his fingers. "Waiter!" he called out melodramatically. Dean just stared. As the waiter came over, looking slightly offended that Alastair had actually snapped his fingers for his attention, Alastair smiled widely and said "We're ready for the bill."

The waiter stomped away with an attitude and Dean looked oddly at Alastair. "I don't think either of us have any money," Dean said. Alastair laughed and said with a sneer, "Oh really, Dean, don't you think I planned ahead for that? I don't pay for my food!" He reached out and put a hand on Dean's arm. Within a second Dean was in that inevitable whirlwind again, ditching the restaurant and bill completely.

When he opened his eyes, he and Alastair were on the rooftop of yet another hotel. It was much later, Dean could tell, as he glanced up at the night sky. It was a beautiful, shimmery, washed indigo blue. Stars dotted it like a silver splattering of wayward paint droplets. Far beyond them to their left, in the direction of the Grand Canyon was the full moon, an exquisite silver orb. The two of them were sitting on the edge of the roof with their legs dangling over the edge. Dean nearly fell off from fright and he shuffled back instantly. Alastair was unconcerned and just watched the traffic pass forty floors below them.

"What – what are we here for?" Dean asked. Alastair glanced back at him.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he said simply.

"Yeah, it's precious," Dean shot back disinterestedly. He got to his feet. "I thought you said I needed to do something."

Alastair shrugged. "All in good time, Dean."

"Tell me _now. _This is ridiculous. All we've done since we got here is sit on a roof gazing at the sky, eat in some snobby restaurant – without paying – and actually watch you have a go at jet skiing!" Dean cursed himself for remembering that. Watching Alastair try to jet ski down the Colorado River was undoubtedly the strangest thing he'd ever seen Alastair do in all their thirty years. It'd only been a few hours since then, but he was furiously trying to erase it from his mind. The image was just far too abnormal – especially as Alastair hadn't even been good at it. Dean had lost count at the number of times Alastair had fallen off, and once again, they'd conveniently disappeared when it came to paying the rental fee at the end.

"What can I say? It was fun!" Alastair mumbled. Dean rolled his eyes exasperatedly.

"Look, tell me why we're here. I'm sick of – "

"We're here, Dean, because you need to start embracing your inner-demon," Alastair interrupted tiredly and swivelled round to face Dean. "It's time. Don't fight it. You need to see what it's like to be a demon." He got to his feet and towered over Dean.

"You know what the first part of being a demon is, Dean?" Alastair asked. Dean gritted his teeth and didn't respond, so Alastair continued. "Finding a host. Demons are quite worthless when they don't have a vessel, even if it is some drugged trash found in a gutter. You can't run around like smoke forever."

"I don't want a vessel," Dean argued indignantly. Alastair shook his head.

"Yes you do," he said. "Now for you, it's a little bit different. You're not smoke yet. You're still in your own body. But don't worry – just infiltrate and possess, and when you're done, you'll go back to being that young, clone-wannabe of Daddy. Sound good?"

Dean didn't even have time to think of an argument before Alastair was beside him in a flash. "It doesn't really matter, I suppose," he sneered. "It's not like you have a choice. You wouldn't want anything to happen to Sam, would you? Or how about that innocent, little boy whom you secretly believe is your son? Ben, wasn't it? It sure would suck if he accidentally made a deal with a crossroads demon, huh? He wouldn't even realize what he was doing."

Dean glared back at him and felt the anger start coursing through him. It snapped through his blood and he subconsciously felt his hands start balling into fists. Alastair laughed. "There we go, Dean!" he exclaimed. "You're angry, good! Now, put it to good use!" and with that, he launched himself at Dean. Dean had no time to react and was helpless as Alastair threw him off the edge of the roof. Dean started to plummet down forty floors head-first and watched in horror as the cement of the road and footpath raced up to meet him.

Fortunately, when he smashed, he didn't feel the thud. Well, he did, but it didn't hurt. Being dead did that for him. He was almost immune to what would kill any living human. For a second he expected to hear screaming, but then he remembered no one could see him here. No humans, at least.

"Find a host, Dean!" he heard Alastair shout from high up above. As Dean got to his feet, he glanced back upwards to the sky and saw Alastair's miniscule figure peering over the edge. "People depend on you!"

"And don't I know it," Dean grumbled to himself. He glanced left and right, and saw that he was back on the main street that ran through Laughlin. Finding a host... Great, that was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. Actually possess somebody? Where had all his humanity gone?

He was distracted by a high-pitched, drunk-sounding giggle somewhere off to his right. Alert, he glanced around. That sounded promising... he took off in that general direction and came to a deserted alley. Most of the pathway was blocked by a discarded dumpster. A cat sat on top of it, licking his paw and washing itself. It glared at Dean suspiciously as he came around the corner, then flicked its tail and disappeared with a dash. Silence fell, and other than that, there was no one around.

Dean was about to back out again and look elsewhere, when he heard that laugh again. Whoever it was seemed to be having fun; it almost sounded like they were having sex. Definitely weird. Dean started to walk back out of the alley uncomfortably when a hand shot out and dragged him back in. Caught off-guard, he barely managed to defend himself, but threw in a few punches as retaliation.

He stopped however when he saw the face. It was grotesque and rotting, just like Ruby's had been, but despite the repulsion, he recognized the demon.

"... Meg?" he said.

Meg's host was one Dean had never seen, but he knew the face of her true self. She stared back in shock at him – clearly she didn't expect to see him either.

"Dean!" she said, surprised, but now she smiled. "Didn't expect to see you here!"

"Uhh... likewise," he said blankly. Meg threw back her head and laughed.

"How perfect... who would've thought we'd bump into each other here?" she exclaimed. "I knew Alastair was planning to take you out somewhere, but I'd never guess it'd be here! It's great to see you," she said, as if the two were old friends. "Why I haven't seen you in what must be... twenty-five years? Our paths just don't seem to cross that often," she pouted playfully.

"What are you doing here?" Dean asked, abruptly and to the point.

"Oh, just a... little fun," she smirked, and tilted her head towards the far end of the dumpster. Dean uncertainly peeked around the corner and saw the body of a man slightly older than Meg's host. He was clearly dead, or very near it. He was strewn on the ground without a shirt on but with a knife sticking out of his left lung.

"Fun?" Dean repeated.

Meg shrugged. "Well you know, Hell gets boring if you're there too long," she said good-naturedly. "Speaking of which, let me guess: Alastair wants to you to start phase one, doesn't he?"

"Phase one?" Dean repeated.

Meg nodded. "Yep, phase one of being a demon. It's always the hardest – at least for the weaklings. You just gotta find a host. It's that simple."

Dean nodded slowly. "Sure, but I have no idea what to... or how to do that," he shrugged. Meg's eyes lit up with a brief flicker of black.

"Well, how lovely!" she beamed. "You want help? I guess you need to find one fast, Alastair threatened someone you love?" she asked.

"Something like that..."

"Yeah, that's pretty much his method for everything. But no matter, seeing as you're one of us now, we demons are always glad to help each other out!" said Meg enthusiastically with a sassy hair flick as she turned to walk in the other direction. "Keep up now!" she called back to him. "And I'll show you _everything_ you need to know about being a demon. Starting with the first and most crucial step: possession." She turned back to him.

"Let's go," she said with a devious smirk. "Because tonight... this city is ours."


End file.
